


Under the Gun

by Snownut



Category: House M.D.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snownut/pseuds/Snownut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A TIME magazine writer investigates the Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital after the hostage situation. Unwilling hero, or just unlikely? OCs, Wilson, Cuddy et all. Multiple perspectives. Last Resort spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Healing the sick took on a whole new meaning this last Friday at the Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital when an armed gunman took a waiting room hostage. Barricading himself in an office, the gunman made his only demand: to be seen by the best doctor in the hospital. Little did he know, he was already in the group. Dr Gregory House, a world renowned diagnostician was occupying the office when the gunman stormed in. Dr. House, Dr. Hadley and nine clinic patients found themselves at the mercy of an ill man, desperate for answers…

No.

No.

But what? Backspacing, she pounded on the keyboard harder than necessary as she spaced all the way back to the beginning. There. Nothing but a title, now. The cursor blinked lazily on the screen, as though it were mocking her. Blank. Blank. Blank. Biting her lip, she sighed heavily and rubbed her forehead in irritation. Glancing at the clock, she closed her eyes and pushed away from her desk. Interview the guy, Jim had said. Get his story on paper, his face on the cover. Famous Doctor Saves Lives. Hell, he'd said, if the guy's a total nutcase it'll sell even more. There could be a Pulitzer in it. For thirty six long hours, the gunman had bullied Dr. House and the other hostages for an answer to his illness. Numerous tests were performed, various treatments were tried before the gunman had his answer and gave himself up. Only after he had been taken into custody did the story come out that one man had been shot, and the other doctor in the group had suffered complications from numerous drug interactions when the gunman had forced her to take every medication before it was given to him. Dr. House himself had been in rough shape when they'd finally been released; he suffered from an unknown chronic condition and had been deprived of his pain medication for over thirty-two hours. He'd been admitted, and sequestered in a private room. Per the hospital's PR staff, Dr House wouldn't be giving a statement until he'd been released—which was expected to be later in the week. She sighed heavily as she gathered her coffee cup and rose to her feet. Three phone interviews with the hospital's dean of medicine, the President of Princeton University and Princeton-Plainsborough's PR department had revealed very little new information about Dr. House. Or at least, nothing beyond his profile on the hospital's website. To catch the eye, there needed to be something special about Dr. House. Some mysterious trait that people could identify with. She'd hoped for a personality trait. The guy read to sick blind kids in his spare time. Rescued cats from trees. Researched the cure for cancer. Something.

Instead, everyone seemed reluctant to say anything about him—other than reiterating his brilliance as a doctor. Her own research had proved equally frustrating. That didn't bode well for a feel-good piece about a heroic doctor saving the lives of his fellow victims.

She let her feet lead her to the cafeteria, and swiped her badge before tugging the door open. Her eyes lit upon the coffee pot and she trudged toward it eagerly, holding her mug out. She thrust it eagerly beneath the spout and filled it to the brim. Holding the mug beneath her nose, she inhaled appreciatively and sipped impulsively. Better. Feeling the warmth spread from her nose to her toes, she wrapped her hands around the mug and cradled it close. Sinking down at a table, she tucked her feet beneath her and waited, listening intently to the low murmur of conversations. Having been chained to her desk for most of the morning, she felt the tension drain out of her as she sat soaking in the warmth of the coffee and the soothing murmur of voices. She felt her thoughts drift away and she followed them; intangible feelings and images floated, unbidden in her mind. Dr. House's pale, stubbled face and piercing blue eyes stood out in her mind. His photo on the hospital's website had revealed a disheveled, yet handsome man with a depth of sorrow in his eyes that she could not erase from memory. What that meant, she couldn't put into words. Not yet, at any rate.

"Carrie?"

Glancing up with a frown, she met John's gaze evenly. "Hey."

"Hey." He sank down beside her, crossing his arms on the table. "How's the story coming?"

"It's not." She admitted, leaning back in the chair. "I can't get a good picture of the guy."

"The doctor?"

"Yeah. I interviewed three people and not one of them could tell me anything other than the guy's a genius."

"Isn't that usually how it works?" John asked, smirking at her.

"Well, yes." She conceded. "I did some more research and found out some pretty wild stuff on him. Do you know an ex-patient of Dr House's walked into his office and shot him twice at point blank range?"

"Wow." John blinked. "That how he ended up with the cane?"

"No, as far as I can tell he had that before. He's got a ton of complaints lodged against him—lots of lawsuits, that kind of thing. Not a single one of them is a malpractice suit. Apparently they never complained about his mistakes. Just his methods."

"Sounds like an interesting guy."

"Yeah." Carrie scrunched her nose and sighed again. "Not what I had in mind when I took this piece."

"Sure it is." John grinned at her. "You like the fact that this guy's a sinner and a saint."

Carrie stared at him, rolling her eyes. "I don't want to write this piece if the guy's a drug dealer who's into kiddie porn. I promised Jim that this'd be a feel-good piece."

John shrugged. "So lie."

Carrie glared at him. "I don't lie."

"Exaggerate." John reiterated. "Look, this guy might be an asshole. But he did diagnose the patient, and he did save the lives of those hostages by playing along. Even if there's nothing else, he did do that."

"I know." She sighed again. She sipped her coffee again, regretting leaving it to sit for so long when she tasted the cold grit. She forced herself to swallow, and distastefully pushed the mug away. Wiping her mouth, she shook her head. "I need to go down there, interview a few people."

"Think they'll tell you anything different?"

"I think it depends on who I talk to. Everyone who represents the hospital is determined to present him as a pet genius who does nothing but good. His patients—as evidenced by the complaints—seem to think he's Dr Jekyll. Who knows what his colleagues will say if asked?"

John shrugged, though a smile played on his lips. "I expect you'll find a lot out about this guy. Don't know how much of it you'll be able to use, or even like."

"He's a world famous doctor. How horrible could he be?" she asked sharply.

John smirked. "I don't know about you, but I'm betting the guy's a real asshole."


	2. Chapter 2

It was late.

Rubbing his wrist thoughtfully, Wilson found nearly three hours had passed since he'd seen his last patient of the day out the door. Behind his eyes, a headache threatened, and he knew he either needed to seek out a strong cup of coffee or find a place to lie down before much longer. He stepped off the elevator on the third floor quickly, and let his feet carry him down the hall past the nurses' station and toward the larger, more spacious private rooms Cuddy liked to reserve for donors.

The lights were off, and the room was silent when Wilson slid the door to House's room open and quietly stepped inside. In the dim light from the windows, he could see House lying on his back with his arms and legs sprawled every which way. He was out cold; snoring softly in the silence of the room. Wilson's eyes flickered to the monitors automatically and he breathed in sharply when he realized House wasn't connected. He felt irritation prick, and then anger flared; the fleeting thought that House had somehow disconnected himself washed over him before fading away in the memory that House hadn't needed to be closely monitored. He wasn't injured, for once, nothing wrong with him other than sleep deprivation, moderate dehydration and Vicodin withdrawal. He'd suffered a few severe muscle spasms that he hadn't been able to alleviate without the aide of the opiates, and had been on his leg far longer than he should have been; but given the length and stress of the hostage situation he'd emerged relatively unscathed. House had half-heartedly protested the overnight admission; he'd wanted to go home to sleep in his own bed. He'd been ready to argue with Cuddy too—when Wilson had stepped in. Terrified of losing House—he'd spent the day and a half glued to his TV—he'd promised House a shot of morphine in exchange for his overnight stay. House had agreed; although he and Wilson both knew it wouldn't take a shot of morphine to put him down. They'd gotten him into one of the nice, private rooms; given him a saline IV and a shot of intramuscular morphine and he'd been out for the count. Wilson gently picked up his wrist and sought the pulse point; counting 104 beats per minute. Given the dose of morphine his heart rate should have been much lower but for the presence of pain. Ah, there it was. His right leg was twisted at an odd angle against the bedrail. On some level, House was aware of the problem and trying to shift his leg—subtle muscle contractions of what remained of his quad at intervals too regular to be solely indicative of pain.

With gentle hands, Wilson reached out and lifted his leg, straightening it before setting it back down on the bed. House relaxed again almost immediately, and Wilson sank down into the chair beside him. He only intended to sit for a moment; make sure House was sleeping comfortably before heading back to his office, but sleep took him between one moment and the next.

He started awake when Cuddy spoke his name, her hand gently resting on his shoulder. Cuddy gave him a sympathetic look, and lowered herself to sit in the chair beside him.

"How's he doing?"

"He's fine." Wilson shook his head tiredly. "I don't know how he does it."

"Does what?" Cuddy leaned back, slumping into the chair. She looked as tired as he felt.

"This." Wilson gestured, unable to find the word that would encompass his meaning. "Why'd he diagnose the guy? Why push himself to find an answer for the guy holding the gun?"

"Why does House do anything?" Cuddy said absently. "He has to solve the puzzle. It's the only thing that matters."

"Why this guy?" Wilson asked again.

"He needed an answer. Who better than House to give him one?" Cuddy patted his knee reassuringly. "He'll be fine."

"One of these days he won't." Wilson sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose wearily.

"You should go home, get some sleep. He'll probably be out the rest of the night." Cuddy told him, giving him a tired smile.

"I will if you will." Wilson grinned at her, his smile widening as she rolled her eyes.

"I have to do damage control. This story's all anyone can talk about."

"The heroic Dr. House?" Wilson laughed softly.

"Remember when he was shot?" Cuddy sighed as Wilson immediately sobered.

"Yes." He breathed softly, lost in memory. House had been unmoving, unconscious when he had rounded the corner into the ER. Foreman had intercepted him, a hand on his shoulder as he had reached out to House instinctively. Blood everywhere—

"Hey." Wilson blinked, hard, when Cuddy squeezed his shoulder. "Where were you?"

"I—" he sighed, shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He rubbed his eyes tiredly, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Anyone in particular hounding your heels for an interview this time?"

"The usual. Trenton Times. New York Times. Time magazine. Oprah."

"Oprah, huh? Has she shown an interest before?"

"When he was shot." Cuddy repeated, shaking her head wryly. "House is renowned for his work within the medical community, and renowed everywhere else for his involvement in armed conflicts."

"It…works for him." Wilson said lamely. Cuddy gave him a sharp look and then ruined the moment by smiling. Rising to her feet, Cuddy lingered by House's side for a moment before speaking again.

"He didn't do a single interview after the shooting. I didn't push him; he'd been through enough by then that anything more would have pushed him over the edge. And you know how weak he was after the ketamine—"

"Yeah." Wilson bobbed his head in agreement.

"So this time he's giving an interview."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"If he was willing to work alongside an armed gunman to reach a diagnosis for a day and a half, he can spend an hour explaining his reasons for doing so to a reporter. I'm tired of making up the excuses. It's time he starts manufacturing his own." With that, Cuddy patted House's arm gently and stepped away from the bed. Giving Wilson a tight smile, she left the room without another word. Rising to his own feet, Wilson fidgeted with the excess IV line, tucking it beneath House's elbow to keep him getting tangled in it. Tugging at the blanket, he flicked the overhead light off and stole quietly to the sliding door. With one last look toward the bed, he forced himself to step out into the hall and leave House to rest.


	3. Chapter 3

Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital was nestled on the outskirts of Princeton's main campus. It was a combination of teaching hospital and campus clinic; free health care in the clinic was provided by young residents and interns getting their start in the healthcare industry to students and local residents. The hospital, however, was staffed by prominent, well known doctors and surgeons and was on the cutting edge in research, oncology and of course; diagnostics. Standing outside the hospital with a cool breeze loosening her hair, Carrie drew her coat more tightly about herself as she surveyed the great brick building dispassionately. Squaring her shoulders, Carrie stepped bravely over the automated door pad and into the main lobby. The hospital's oak leaf logo was engraved into the marble floor that spread from the doors to the elevators. After the chill of the wind from the parking lot to the front door, the hospital's warmth was welcome and Carrie gratefully eased her grip on the lapels of her coat and forced her numb fingers to unbutton the top two buttons with difficulty. The wall to the right of the door drew her attention, and she drifted over to examine the framed photographs of the hospital's top donors, staff members, and doctors.  
Dr. House's digitized image was far down the wall where he was listed with the other department heads. She studied the image thoughtfully, comparing the handsome, clean shaven man with the disheveled one she had seen in the paper the day before. Only the eyes were the same; bright, piercing blue and filled with a listless depth. Drawing her gloves off, she unwound the scarf from around her neck and studied his image intently.  
"Can I help you?" a voice called, and Carrie turned to see a nurse sitting behind the desk calling to her.  
"Yes." She smiled. "I'm looking for Dr. Cuddy."

Dr. Cuddy's office was situated just outside the free clinic. Carrie stepped close to the police line thoughtfully, trying to peer past the yellow tape. It was hard to see anything inside the office through the glare coming in through the blinds. She sighed, closing her eyes in momentary defeat. So much for a surreptitious look at the crime scene.  
"You must be Carrie?" someone said, and Carrie turned to find a small, stylishly dressed woman walking toward her smoothly despite her extremely high heels. Carrie raised an eyebrow, impressed.  
"Yes." She held a hand out, and Cuddy took it for a moment before releasing it.  
"I'm Lisa Cuddy. I understand you'd like to interview Dr. House?"  
"Yes. I would like to hear his side of the story, as well as interview anyone you think could offer insight into Dr. House's character."  
"Dr. House is—recovering—and isn't ready to see anyone." Dr. Cuddy admitted after a moment's hesitation. Carrie groaned inwardly; her instincts seemed correct in thinking there was something to Dr. House's reputation—both the good and the bad. "However," Dr. Cuddy continued, "you could speak with Dr. Wilson. He's probably the only person who even comes close to understanding how House thinks."  
Carrie bit her lip; trying to decide how to phrase her next question as professionally as possible.  
"Could you tell me how much truth there is to Dr. House's drug addiction?"  
Dr. Cuddy stiffened, and Carrie wondered if she knew how much she guilt she portrayed with that single gesture. Definitely something there, to be sure. She wondered idly, not for the first time, how much of Dr. House's personal and professional lives were intertwined. Everything she'd so far discovered about the man seemed hopelessly tangled. After a moment, Dr. Cuddy spoke.  
"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you." she said finally. "You should take that up with him in the course of your interview."  
"I understand." Carrie said quietly. "If I could speak with Dr. Wilson." she prompted gently, and Dr. Cuddy nodded tersely.  
"Yes, I'll take you to his office." Dr. Cuddy strode toward the elevators and Carrie followed in her wake. Thus far, her visit to Princeton-Plainsborough was only raising more questions than answers. She only hoped Dr. Wilson could shed some positive light on the unfolding mystery that was Dr. Gregory House.

House was sitting with his back against Cuddy's desk, Thirteen perched beside him. He was pale and sweaty; Wilson could see his breathing was fast and shallow, too. Thirty two hours without pain relief House was well past the worst of the withdrawal. Which meant he was now in unremitting agony. Thirteen touched House's shoulder, and pressed her fingers to his carotid artery for a moment before shaking her head sadly. Fast. Too fast, Wilson realized. Her lips were moving, and House gave her a withering look that Wilson interpreted to mean she was stating the obvious. House knew all too well that his heart rate was too fast and what damage he was doing to his heart every moment that he went without pain relief. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it.  
Thirteen shifted away from House then and moved to their gunshot victim. She checked his pulse and leaned forward to listen to something he was saying. Blood soaked strips of House's jacket were bound tightly around the victim's leg, but the bleeding seemed to have finally stopped. Thirteen nodded at him and rejoined House, leaning in close to confer with him while the gunman was distracted by the phone call from the police. House glanced up, staring directly into the camera and nodded, once.  
"Dr. Wilson, we're going to move now." The lieutenant told him quietly. Out in the lobby, Wilson could see the SWAT team shifting into position.  
"Now?" Wilson asked dumbly. Beside him, Cuddy took a shaky breath. "What did he tell you?"  
"The gunshot victim's short on time. Dr. House and Dr. Hadley don't look too good either."  
That was true, Wilson knew. House looked terrible. And Thirteen had been subjected to several tests and treatments that the gunman had deemed too dangerous for himself. House had done his best to minimize certain drug interactions, but there were a few that he simply hadn't been able to avoid. Over thirty hours had passed since the gunman had taken them hostage—House, Thirteen and six patients from the clinic waiting room. He'd shot a patient to underline the seriousness of his demands. He'd taken House's pain medication, and while the SWAT teams and the police had dicked around House had been forced to take the case at gunpoint. In agony. While detoxing.

Wilson stared hard into the camera as the SWAT team burst through the doors. Shots were exchanged, Wilson watched in horror as House and Thirteen ducked, collapsing into a heap at the base of the desk together.  
"He's down." The lieutenant beside him declared triumphantly.  
"Are they all okay?" Cuddy asked breathlessly.  
"Yes." He paused. "They're requesting emergency teams."  
Wilson and Cuddy rose together, moving quickly to the door and racing across the lobby. Wilson only paused to let the EMTs pass before he slid through the door to Cuddy's office. Thirteen sat up slowly, her pale face was pinched and she looked very, very tired. Beside her, House was still lying on his back biting his lip, which was bloody. His eyes were squeezed tightly closed. Kneeling, Wilson pressed his fingers urgently to House's carotid to find his pulse racing. Jesus. Over 160 and climbing.  
"How fast was his pulse before?" Wilson demanded of Thirteen. She turned to face him slowly, staring at him blankly. "Hadley. I need to know how fast his pulse was."  
"140." House gasped, shuddering as a muscle spasm wracked him again. His pulse climbed still higher to 170 beats per minute. House's eyes fluttered closed, and Wilson felt the racing pulse beneath his fingers sputter before it slowed suddenly.  
"I need a crash cart in here!" Wilson shouted. Cuddy grasped Thirteen by the upper arm and tugged her out of the way as the EMTs dropped to their knees beside him. Someone—Wilson couldn't see who—had a portable defibrillator and ripped House's shirt in half to expose his chest. One of the EMTs shoved him aside as he hurriedly administered a dose of atropine. Wilson snatched the paddles and pressed them to House's chest. Whispering a silent prayer, Wilson shouted clear and waited, hands shaking while the paddles charged. House's body shook when the electricity jolted his chest. Cuddy scrambled back beside House and pressed her fingers to his throat. Shaking her head, she withdrew her hand while the paddles whined before the charge.  
"Nothing." she said faintly.  
"Clear." Wilson said.  
"Nothing."  
"Clear."  
"Nothing."  
"Clear—"  
"Wilson—"  
"Again." Wilson said, and Cuddy felt tears well in her eyes as Wilson pressed the paddles to House's chest again. He was already bruising, and his lips were tinged blue. Wilson withdrew the paddles, and threw his arms around House, sobbing.  
"Wilson."  
"-Wilson. Dr. Wilson?"  
He woke then, knowing that his eyes were gummed with tears and burning with exhaustion. Groaning faintly, he sat up on the couch and put his head in his hands. A nightmare, that was all. House was safe in his room on the third floor. He'd finally gone back to his own office to catch some sleep before beginning his rounds. Although, he noted in disgust, the time for rounds had already been and gone. Alicia, his assistant, was kneeling beside him with a hand on his shoulder in support.  
"Are you all right?" she asked kindly, and he nodded shakily.  
"Yeah."  
"Brown covered your rounds for you. I knew you were up with House for a long time last night, and you didn't wake up when I came in here at 7:30." Alicia supplied, and he nodded his appreciation.  
"Thanks. Any updates?"  
"Not really. Mrs. Cartwright's white count is in the tank, but that's nothing new. He dropped the Isotretinoin down to see if he could encourage it to rise on it's own."  
"How is House?" Alicia asked, and he sighed, remembering the intensity of his nightmare.  
"He's fine. He just needed some fluids, and some sleep." he shook his head in disbelief.  
"Why'd he do it?" Alicia asked, and he half-laughed at the question.  
"Why does House do anything? He did it to solve the puzzle." Rising to his feet, he stretched for a moment before shuffling around the low table and diving into his bottom desk drawer. "God, I need a shower."  
"You might want to make it a quick one." Alicia warned. "I didn't wake you up to tell you about Mrs. Cartwright. Dr. Cuddy has a journalist from TIME magazine that wants to talk to you."  
Wilson made a face, and grunted. "Why me?" he asked as he rummaged through his emergency bag to make sure he had everything he needed. He contemplated his rumpled shirt and finally decided against going down his car to retrieve his garment bag. Scrubs would do for the time being.  
"She wants to talk to someone who understands House."  
"So I'm pretty much the only option." he deadpanned, and Alicia laughed. He sighed then, and slung the bag over his shoulder. "Tell Cuddy I'll meet the journalist here in about half an hour."


End file.
